


The Line

by a_frayed_edge



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Cheating, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Slow Burn, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-08 05:17:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_frayed_edge/pseuds/a_frayed_edge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not like he’s friends with Cas, not like he owes the guy anything.  It sucks that he’s going to be breaking up a relationship, but Cas’ own brother doesn’t approve, and that has to count for something, right?  Probably Dean is doing everyone a favor here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the classes mentioned in this fic are ones taken straight from the Columbia College Chicago website, though I've never been to the school myself so I may get some things incorrect. Also, Dean and Cas are obviously de-aged here, but it's modern times, hence the ubiquity of cellphones.

“I’m in love,” Jo says, settling next to Benny Lafitte on the grass and pulling open a bag of chips (regular Lays, Dean notes with disappointment). 

It’s Benny who responds first, because they’ve all been through this with her so many times that every semester, since they were all freshman (well, aside from Victor, who's been working on his doctorate in Physical Education since long before any of the others were sitting behind the desks of a College 101 class) one of them has had to remain the voice of reason, and they’ve all agreed that Benny has the most soothing, sensible voice.  And he’s the only one that they’re all reasonably certain Jo won’t take a swing at because the year Dean invited him back to Lawrence for Christmas, Ellen Harvelle, Jo’s mother, had cooed delightedly over his Southern charm up until it was time to return to school and though Jo may make a big show about not caring what her mom thinks, there’s just no way she’s going to risk leaving a bruise on her mother’s adopted son.

“What’s his name,” is what Benny asks, all casual, like he isn’t sitting there exchanging knowing looks with Dean and Charlie. 

Unfortunately for them all, Jo catches it, and the icy glare she turns back on them is so reminiscent of Ellen’s _I know exactly what you did, Dean Winchester, now ‘fess up before I call your mother_ that Dean immediately flinches and attempts to distract her by snatching some chips from her bag.  He manages to curb the urge to whine about why she didn’t get Sour Cream and Onion, but it’s a near thing.  “Castiel Novak,” she replies, snatching the chips back from Dean.  She pops another in her mouth at the exact moment that Dean groans.  Loudly.

“God, Jo,”  he moans, a little melodramatic but he got next to no sleep the night before thanks to the enthusiastic lovemaking-followed-by-shouting-match that his downstairs neighbors engage in every Thursday night.  He’d tried to call Victor, who’s always saying he’s got a couch that Dean is welcome to use as a bed any time, but the bastard hadn’t answered, explaining this morning that he’d gone over to his parents’ and left his cell phone at home.  Victor is the only one of them with parents close by, and he visits them with a regularity that mystify both Jo and Dean (who loves his own parents dearly, not to mention Sammy, but there’s a reason he’s attending a school two states over).  “I hate that guy.”

Jo perks up immediately, her eyes wide and begging and he knows exactly where she picked that up.  Thanks so much, little brother.  “You know him?”

“Technically,” he says.  He raises his eyebrows until she grumbles about blackmail, and passes him half of her meatball sub.  “He’s in a couple of my classes.  Guy’s a douche.”

“Which classes,” Jo asks at the same time Victor asks, “What’s wrong with him?”

“Well for one, he’s in my Philosophy class and we can’t even get through one damn lecture without him finding something to correct the teacher about-“

“And this is . .  a bad thing,” Charlie inquires innocently.  “You'd rather he not say anything?”

“Uh, yeah, if it meant we’d start getting out on time.  And Castiel is the – remember, I told you guys about the kid in my Writing 201 class that I had to partner up with for the essays about that story, the one about the lady that walks to and from the store every day for medicine for her grandson and, you know, it turns out that he's already dead?”

“Okay, that is the worst description of _A Worn Path_ ever.”

“Shut up, Charlie.  And, remember, we were supposed to be giving _feedback_ and what does he do?  He goes and writes a page-long critique of my essay, like he’s my fucking editor.”

“And jog my memory,” Jo snaps.  “What grade did you get on that paper?”

“Not the point.”

“It kinda is.”

“How do _you_ know him,” Benny interjects.  Dean and Jo have a knack for letting the bickering go on for days if left unattended, and Dean loathes Castiel so there’s really no end in sight. 

Jo offers _him_ a small smile as she takes a bite of her sandwich.  “Just met him over at Subway.”

“I can’t really picture that guy spreading horseradish on whole wheat,” Dean mutters with a snort.  “You know, it might be worth the thirty eight dollar subs to see it, though.”

“He doesn’t work there, snob.  We met in line.”

“Winchester.”

The group looks up and when Dean’s eyes fall on the newcomer, he has to suppress a shiver. 

It was a mistake to get in this deep with Crowley, he can see that now.  It was supposed to be a small loan, just enough to keep his power on and his apartment locks unchanged because it’s not like he planned on getting fired, okay, but it’s taking so much longer to find a job than he could have imagined, and Crowley kept offering to help him out, loaning out a thousand dollars at a time, and assuring him they would think of a way to settle the debt _some day._ Only now he’s ready to cash in, Dean still can’t find a job, and he keeps dropping hints about the Impala, and over Dean’s dead body will that greasy asshole get his hands on the keys to Dean's Baby. 

“Crowley,” Dean returns carefully, and, behind him, he can feel his friends sharing uneasy looks.  They all know about the loan, and, even more so, know how much he loves his car, and sometimes they all wonder just what it will take for Dean to finally give in and try his hand at beating Crowley to a pulp.  Of course, there’s the girlfriend to consider.  Naomi Peterson, Dean’s heard, is a black belt in something that sounds very intimidating and walks hand-in-hand with Crowley everywhere the man goes.  Someday, though, Dean likes to assure himself in the middle of the night as he lays awake coming up with increasingly extreme solutions to this predicament, Naomi is going to wise up, ditch Crowley, and then Dean can put his father’s training to good use. 

“What do you want, Crowley,” Jo snaps, her irritation with Dean replaced by fierce loyalty.  “Dean’s still supposed to have another –“

Crowley sighs loudly, flicking a mournful gaze at Naomi, who detects the sarcasm and smiles indulgently.  “I can’t just come by to say hello to a friend,” he asks.  He pauses, like he expects laughter, but even Naomi appears unimpressed, so maybe she’s not as soulless as Dean has always assumed.  “Call off the guard dogs, Winchester.  I’m not here for anything more sinister than a leisurely promenade to the science building.  As Ms. Harvelle pointed out, you still have plenty of time, and I’m not going to try to collect early.  Really, Dean, it’s as if you don’t know me at all.”

He gives no further comment, leading Naomi away from Dean and the others. 

“I really hate that guy,” says Victor savagely. 

So does Dean.

*

The run-in with Crowley has Dean sufficiently nervous, so he skips his 2:00 lecture and heads two blocks over, to a small bar, McHale’s, to ask, again, about the open position.  There’s been a sign in the window for almost two weeks, and Dean’s turned in at least three separate applications during that time.  He’s spoken to the owner twice, a guy named Gabe, who’s more than a little tough to read and keeps blaming Dean’s lack of serving experience as the reason he can’t get past an interview.  But the sign's still hanging where it’s been when Dean pulls the door open. 

He recognizes Gabe immediately, leaning over the bar, talking loudly to the only customer in sight.  Dean feels a little sheepish when he’s spotted and Gabe moans in disbelief, but before the guy can tell him the same thing he’s told him before, Dean blurts out that he’s, “Not here to beg for employment, man.  Just getting a drink.”

Gabe looks like he, quite frankly, couldn’t believe him less, but doesn’t argue when Dean draws a little closer to the bar, and settles into a stool two seats over from –

And fuck his fucking luck. 

“Castiel,” Dean greets, and even he can hear the displeasure in his own voice.  Castiel turns to face him, and tilts his head to the side, and Dean clears his throat.  “How are you, man?”  Which is a little friendlier than he normally goes for when it comes to Castiel, but sometimes there’s really no stopping Jo when she’s got her heart set on something and if Castiel is going to be a member of their hodgepodge little family, well, they might as well start being civil.

“Hello, Dean,” says Castiel, his own voice lifted in confusion.  Yeah, Dean can understand that, because he’s pretty sure he’s never addressed Castiel outside the classroom before, and considering the amount of times they run into each other throughout the day like it’s by design, that’s saying something.  “I’m well, thank you.” 

Gabe looks up in surprise, and his eyes flit quickly between the two.  “Dean-o.  You should have told me you were friends with my brother,” he chides.  Dean tries to hide the disdain from his expression as it occurs to him just how unlikely it is, at this point, that he’s going to be able to convince Gabe to hire him. 

“I’d say ‘friends’ is stretching it a bit,” Castiel contradicts quickly. 

Dean blinks, jerking himself back into the conversation at hand, hastily agrees before adding, “We just have a couple of classes together.”

“Dean is rather sensitive about his writing.”  Castiel sighs and shoots brother a long-suffering look, but Gabe turns sympathetic eyes on Dean.

“Don’t tell me,” says Gabe, wryly.  “Castiel here wrote a small novel, analyzing every inch of your essay?  And not one single word resembling anything tactful or complementary?”

Dean can’t help but be impressed and a little bit pleased.  “Basically.”

Gabe snorts.  “Well, if it helps at all, I can assure you that my brother is well-aware of his own shortcomings as well,” he says, not unkindly.  “In fact, his boyfriend likes to take the time to remind him of them as often as possible.”

The glare that sketches across Castiel’s face tells Dean this is the conversation they were engaging in when he pulled up his seat, and it’s not really any of his business, except that this means he gets to break the _Sorry, Jo, your true love is taken.  And gay_ news which, if he’s honest with himself, he can readily admit that he’s kind of looking forward to – a stranger in line at Subway does not a soulmate make.  But he’s feeling pretty relaxed, the way he gets when he’s catching a movie with Sam, and so he orders a beer from Gabe, before remarking to Castiel, “The guy sounds like a real gem.”

“You don’t know him,” Castiel snaps.  “Gabriel chooses to paint him in the most unfortunate light possible because he’s never liked him.”

“Over a year you’ve been with this guy,” Gabe shoots back.  “And in all that time, has he ever given the slightest indication that –“

Cas holds up a hand with the air of having heard all this before and slides off his stool.  “This conversation is over.  I simply wished to discuss the party with you, and I’ve done so.  It’s up to you whether you want to come and if you would like to bartend.  I thought the possibility of drunken college students with deep pockets would appeal to you.  Of course, I’d prefer it if you would come as a guest, but whatever means it will take to get you there I’m prepared to use.  Anna has already agreed that she will be there.”

“She would,” Gabe grumbles, but he sounds like he’s relenting.  “And this is going to be a real party?  Not some version of one you picked up in a Charles Dickens novel?”

The corners of Castiel’s lips twitch, almost like he’s fighting a smile, which Dean thinks is ridiculous because he’s never seen the guy lose his haughty look of annoyance.  But the spark of mischief dances in Castiel’s eyes and for a tenth of a second he kind of sees why Jo likes the guy.

“Yes, Gabriel, a real party.  It’s in Aaron’s honor, for goodness sakes.  He’s never been much of a fan of ballroom dancing.” 

“I’m holding you to that.”

Then, the conversation actually _is_ over, and Castiel pulls on the door handle and exits the bar.

Gabe promptly descends into the worst mood ever, and it really couldn’t be much clearer that now is not the time to appeal to his sense of pity.  Dean pays for his beer and returns to the campus.

*

Jo takes the news a lot better than Dean had suspected.  Her face falls, she makes a single, feeble attempt at “So?  You’re bi – he can’t be too?” until he’s forced to tell her about the boyfriend, and then she sighs, shrugs, and asks to scale how bad an idea it would be to start dating Victor.  Which, Dean knows Victor has been into Jo for a while, so he doesn’t even give her any kind of shit for it, tells her he thinks it’s worth a shot.

*

It appears that Crowley is standing by his word, and doesn’t search Dean out at all the rest of the day, and so by the time his cell phone rings at six p.m. he’s been lulled into a false sense of security.  He’s lying on the couch watching an early episode of Frasier, and he doesn’t even check the caller I.D. before flipping it open.  “Hello?”

“Dean,” comes Crowley’s voice and he flinches harshly at the sound.  He’s known all along that this was too good to be true, and he’s about to be proven right.  He can’t imagine how he’s going to explain losing the Impala to his mother, to his father, who trusted him with the keys, trusted him to take care of her, and this is how Dean repays that trust.  A part of him wonders if John will even be surprised.  “I have good news for you.”

“Right.”  It comes out a little sharp, but it’s not as if anyone could blame him, he decides.

Crowley doesn’t appear to notice, and he doesn’t comment either way.  “Look, I don’t really want you to lose that beautiful car of yours,” he says, and it’s like he’s trying to sound gentle.  “So Naomi and I have been discussing alternative forms of payment.”

“Alternative forms of . . . payment,” Dean repeats blankly, but his mind is spinning with possibilities and several of them involve having to wonder things that, frankly, he’d rather not have to wonder.

Crowley laughs.  “Dean, please.  This is not that kind of arrangement.”

“Okay, so then _what?”_

“I want you to break up Castiel Novak and Aaron Bass.”

The words hang in the air and for just a minute Dean is certain he’s misheard.  “What?”

Crowley sighs heavily, as though the depths of Dean’s idiocy have personally offended him.  “I want you to break up Castiel and Aaron,” he repeats, slow and precise.  “Honestly, sometimes I can’t tell if you’re doing this on purpose or –“

“Crowley,” Dean interrupts.  He feels the beginnings of a headache curling behind his eyes, and his patience has waned to almost nothing.  He’s exhausted, he’s had a rough day already, and the only thing that keeps him from disconnecting the call so that he can silently stalk Crowley’s apartment until Naomi leaves him unattended is the terrifying mental image of the Impala parked anywhere that isn’t Dean’s parking space (and they don’t have assigned parking at Lakeside Apartments, but Dean’s classes end before the nine to five crowd makes it home, so he usually gets his pick of the litter, and there’s one space that manages to be both right outside his door, and carefully shaded under the overhanging tree, and it’s the spot he uses the most often).  “Look, I’m just not in the habit of breaking up relationships, particularly ones where I’m not interested in either person.  So forget it.”

“I will certainly _not_ just forget it,” Crowley spits out.  “We have a deal.”

“Yeah, that says nothing in the terms about me becoming some kind of homewrecking prostitute.”  He cuts off the rest of his tirade, and takes a deep breath and tries to appeal to reason.  “It won’t work anyway,” he says.  “I watched Castiel’s own brother lay out a case to end the relationship, and the guy just wasn’t hearing it.  I’m telling you, it’s a waste of time.”

“And I’m telling you, that the ways in which you are qualified for this task are actually quite unique.  See, the word going around, Winchester, is that Castiel is actually quite taken with you.”

And now Dean is _sure_ he’s misheard, because Dean, among the other habits he doesn’t make, he doesn’t make a habit of hating people that don’t hate him in return.  His mother says that it’s too much effort with nothing by way of payoff, and so it’s not like this thing with Castiel is one-sided.  Sure, they were civil enough when Gabe was standing nearby, and they’ve never actually come to blows in the middle of a classroom or the courtyard, but he knows it’s not his imagination that often times Castiel will argue the conflicting side when Dean tries to make a point in Philosophy just because it argues against Dean.  Last week the guy tried to say that the root of man’s law can be traced back to the Bible, and, as such, the Bible is the most influential publication to date, and it’s pretty well-known how not seriously Dean takes God’s Word or whatever, so even though he hadn’t risen to the bait, he was pretty sure it was planted intentionally, especially when, at the end of Castiel’s monologue, he’d turned to Dean, his eyebrows up by his hairline, like it was a fucking _challenge_ or something. 

So, yeah, he’s pretty sure Castiel hates him, and when he relates this little anecdote to Crowley, the man, somewhat unsurprisingly, doesn’t back down.  Instead, he chuckles lowly over the line.  “Oh, Dean, certainly that’s not the best you can come up with, is it?  You, the most emotionally constipated human being to have ever walked the Earth, want to fault someone for pulling pigtails?”

“Dude, this is more than pulling pigtails!”

“Oh, hurt your feelings, has he,” Crowley mocks.  “Perhaps you should invest in thicker skin.”

“Fuck off.”  But he’s lost all the bite to his tone as it dawns on him that all this stalling is just that – stalling – and he could spend hours listing to Crowley all the reasons that this is a bad idea and certain to fail, but he’d just be wasting his time and energy and he can think of more enjoyable ways of using both.  So he lets all the protests die away and forces himself to think about the Impala, and all the hell Crowley would put her though.  He probably eats in the car.  “Say I’m considering it,” Dean eventually relents.  “What happens if I give it my best effort, and this kid can’t be swayed?  Like, what if Castiel Novak is the most committed guy ever?”

“Then I guess,” Crowley says, finality in his voice, “you would have to try harder.”

*

Philosophy and Writing 201 fall during his Tuesday and Thursday block, so he figures he’s got a few days before he needs to give it much thought and honestly it’s a relief.  He prefers for the weekend to be unblemished by demands and responsibility, and so he calls up Jo and Victor to see if they’re wanting to take advantage of Friday night Half-Price Draft Night over at Dobbler’s, a bar a couple of blocks from campus.  Victor’s picking up an on-call shift but Charlie texts him begging him to distract her away from the terrifying world of French verb conjugation and the three of them agree to meet at seven.

By the time Dean pulls up in the Impala, the place is alive with college students sharing Dean’s idea, but luckily Jo and Charlie seemed to have arrived before the crowd peaked, because they wave him down from a booth in the back, half-hidden behind a pool table and a low-hanging lamp. 

“This is a little ridiculous,” he grumbles as he slides in beside Charlie. 

“You should have been here fifteen minutes ago,” replies Jo.  “This place was a morgue.  We thought it was to end up just us, and Balthazar and Castiel over there.”

Dean looks up at the sound of the name, and follows Jo’s line of sight to where, sure as shit, the British kid he recognizes from his Bio lab a few semesters ago, and the guy he’s been studiously _not_ thinking about all day are standing at the bar, heads lowered in deep discussion.  Dimly, Dean hears Jo say something to Charlie, but he doesn’t pay attention, allowing his eyes to slide up Castiel’s frame, inspecting him in a way that he normally never would, bratty know-it-alls at the bottom of his typical lists of interests.  But now that he’s looking, he’s forced to acknowledge that the guy is . . . attractive, in a way.  Short dark hair, clear, blue eyes, a body that falls neatly between slim and built.  And he’s got a face like it’s chiseled from smooth marble. 

A sharp pain knifes at his forehead and he jerks his attention to Jo, just in time to settle back into her seat.  “What did you flick me for,” he demands angrily, rubbing the wound.

“Are you really thinking about going after Castiel?”  She crosses her arms over her chest and levels a glare at him so withering that he has to harness all the self-control he possesses to avoid shifting uncomfortably.  “The guy’s in a relationship.”

“Not to mention that you hate him,” Charlie chimes in.  “What gives, Winchester?”

The thing is, Dean actually is quite skilled at lying.  You don’t make it all the way through high school, letting male hook ups weave in through the female ones without your father finding out without knowing how to tell a convincing fib.  But Charlie and Jo, along with Benny and Sam, always seem to manage to spot his tells, and, plus, he finds that he wants to just blurt it out and hopefully alleviate some of the guilt sitting like a heavy rock in the pit of his stomach.  “Okay, it’s not really like that,” he begins, laying his hands flat against the table before taking a breath.  Jo and Charlie share matching looks of confusion and impatience.  “Crowley offered me an out.  A way to pay my debt to him without me having to come up with thousands of dollars by the end of the month.”

“I get the feeling I’m not going to like this,” Jo mutters.

He fills them in as quickly and succinctly as possible, and by the end of it, the girls’ expressions have slipped into something closer to horror. 

Charlie is the first to speak, carefully threading her fingers together, and meeting his eyes.  “You cannot really be thinking about doing this,” she says gently.  “What about Aaron?”

“What _about_ Aaron,” Dean snaps.  “I don’t even know the guy.  You know who I do know?  My dad, who is going to have a stroke if I lose the Impala because I wouldn’t tell them I lost my job.  But they can’t be helping me out when they’ve got to save money for Sammy’s school.  It’s not like Stanford is a cheap place.”

“We get that,” Jo says.  Her eyes soften.  “We don’t want you to lose the Impala either.”

“I know.”

“But I mean, you said Crowley thinks he already likes you.  You really want to mess with this guy’s feelings or whatever?” 

Dean sighs.  “I just – You know, with the whole ‘bi’ thing, and the whole, ‘going to college instead of enlisting’ thing, I’m not trying to give my old man more ammunition.  I’m supposed to go home for Thanksgiving next month.” 

“Your mom was glad you didn’t enlist,” Charlie argues because they’ve both heard enough about John and Mary Winchester to last a lifetime.  Enough that Charlie knows what happened the night he told his parents he’d been accepted into Columbia College.  In Chicago. 

“So was I,” Jo adds. 

Dean laughs and drops his head against the back of the booth, and tries to focus on the memory of Mary’s relief, and not John’s disappointment.  A small part of him had been terrified that that news alone would be enough to tear them apart, but Sam had been steadfast in his decision that he would refuse to go to college unless Dean ‘fessed up and told their parents what he wanted.  Dean still isn’t sure where he’d be if Sam hadn’t decided, one rainy afternoon, that his brother had been acting strangely for days, and decided to get down to the bottom of it.  He’d found the acceptance letter hidden in Dean’s pillow case, and boy that had been an annoying conversation.  “Yeah, me too.  But it doesn’t change anything.  What would you do if you were me?”

Their silence is answer enough, and Dean breathes out a sigh of frustration before climbing to his feet.  “I need a drink.  What do you guys want?”

They both ask for whatever’s on tap, and he makes his way to the bar, drifting close enough to where Castiel is settled to do a little eavesdropping because why not? 

“Castiel, you’re my best friend, and I love you dearly,” Balthazar says, as Dean flags down the bartender a few feet away, a woman he thinks is named Pamela, but he isn’t sure.  She gives him a nod of acknowledgment, holds up a finger signaling for him to wait before turning back to the other patron.  “But if you really think I’m going to be attending this party of yours, then you’re drunker than I thought you were.”

“Balthazar, please,” Castiel begs.  “You know we have to keep up appearances, and this party is the perfect way to accomplish that.  Aaron wants everything to be as normal as possible.”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?  I have to tell you, Cassie, no matter how you spin this, it’s not going to change a thing.  You and Aaron are different in ways that I do not support, and I’m not even going to remind you of all the-“

“What can I get you, sweetheart?”

Dean’s not too ashamed to admit that he jumps a mile at (thank you, establishment-mandated nametag) Pamela’s sudden appearance and he tries to cover it with sharp cough.  “Sorry,” he says.  Pamela raises her eyebrows in amusement.  “Just, three of your cheapest tap.”

She takes the money, he tells her to keep the change, and only barely smothers the urge to just flat out ask her to leave so he can go back to listening in on this conversation that he has not been invited into.  But she turns away before he can succumb, and he drops his gaze just as Balthazar’s accented voice floats over. 

“I’ll give it some thought,” is what he says, and to Dean’s immense frustration, he slips off his stool, and leans over to brush a pretentious kiss against Castiel’s cheek.  “I’ll see you soon.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says, rolling his eyes.  “Call me when you’ve made up your mind.”

“You know I will.”

And then Balthazar is gone and Dean waits to see if Castiel is going to follow his friend, and when he doesn’t, Dean screws up his courage and turns to catch his attention.  “You know, that’s the second person within 24 hours that I’ve heard tell you they don’t want to go to this party of yours.”  Castiel jumps in a perfect imitation of Dean and he can’t help but take a little pleasure in it.  “That’s not really the reaction you’re supposed to be aiming for.” 

Castiel recovers much faster than Dean, however, and before he can process it, Castiel has his laser-like gaze zeroed in on him, and it’s a little more unsettling than he might have guessed.  “There’s nothing wrong with my party-throwing ability,” he says.  It doesn’t come across quite as bitchy as it might have, though, so Dean smirks back.

“Yeah, no, I’m starting to get that.  This guy, Aaron, doesn’t seem to have a lot of fans.”

Castiel frowns at him in that familiar way that somehow gives him the impression that he’s got the upper hand, so he pushes a little more, curious to see how much Castiel can take.  “That many people telling you to dump the guy, maybe you should think about it.”

“Since when do you care what I do with my love life,” Castiel asks irritably.  “You don’t even like me.”

Dean gives him a look of mock hurt.  “That’s not true, Cas.”  The name slips off his tongue without his permission, but it feels natural enough, especially when _Cas_ breathes out in annoyance. 

“Don’t call me that.”

“Cas,” Dean says again, and before he can continue, Pamela returns with his drink order, and sets them down in front of him.  When she’s gone again, Dean tosses Cas one last smile that the guy turns away from, and something in the back of his mind suddenly goes off like an alarm and he thinks, for all the unlikelihood of it, Crowley might be on to something here.  So as he slides off the stool and leans over to take the drinks, he allows himself to press his shoulder into Cas’, leans closer than is strictly necessary.  “See you around, man,” he says.  


	2. Chapter 2

The rest of the weekend is the low-maintenance affair Dean prefers and by the time Monday rolls around he’s feeling better about the whole thing. It’s not like he’s _friends_ with Cas _,_ not like he owes the guy anything. It sucks that he’s going to be breaking up a relationship, but Cas’ own brother doesn’t approve, and that has to count for something, right? Probably Dean is doing everyone a favor here.

He strolls into his Photography class mostly free of guilt, and slides into his regular seat on the far left hand side of the room, in front of Jo. She’s studying the pictures she took over the weekend with laser-like focus and it almost makes him a little homesick, the look one he’s seen so many times written across his brother’s face. Dean signed up for Fitzgerald’s class to fulfill an elective requirement and because he figured it was the perfect excuse to roam the campus, taking pictures of the more photogenic students. Jo only signed up because he did, the amount of classes they had together a scarce few, but lately he knows she’s been contemplating the idea of changing her major completely. It’d mean another year and a half at least in Chicago, but he’s not sure she’s counting that as a negative.

Finally she shoves the pictures away with an irritated noise of disgust. “I’m having lunch with Castiel this afternoon,” she says, and it’s so far from anything that he might have expected her to say that he blinks in surprise. She shrugs, leaning back. “I ran into him at the library, offered to buy him a meal. I figured it was the least I could do, considering the thoughts I’d been having about the guy.”

“Oh, okay, great,” replies Dean, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Like this whole thing wasn’t already messy enough.”

Jo rolls her eyes, before sighing impatiently. “Please tell me you aren’t actually this dumb,” she says. “This is a good thing. I can talk you up, try to make it sound like you aren't, you know, this giant douchebag who goes around being a jerk to people for no apparent reason.”

“Well, gee, when you put it like that, how can I say no?”

“I'm sorry. Did I give you the impression that I was asking?”

Before Dean can think up a good retort, however, Professor Fitzgerald comes striding into the room, an overstuffed bag slung around his shoulder. He dumps it unceremoniously onto his desk, and straightens, before turning to address the class.

All things considered, Dean actually likes Fitzgerald. Admittedly, the guy is a kinda weird. He snacks on gummy bears in between lectures and rumors persist about the droopy sock puppet he keeps in the bottom drawer of his desk, but Dean will never again mistake compassion for naivety or stupidity. Bela Talbot still tells the story of the day he caught her trying to sneak a peek at the answer key to their first quiz and the respect in her gaze whenever he enters the room is enough to impress just about anyone. He's a strange sort of study in contradictions, and Dean's found he doesn't really mind that.

“Good morning,” Fitzgerald greets amiably. “Anyone get any good shots this weekend?”

*

Jo is supposed to meet Cas at twelve, and Dean spends the majority of his break alternating between flipping through his Philosophy book and casting increasingly irritable glances at his silent phone. He considers texting his brother just to give himself something to do, but before he can, it lights up. “So,” he prompts as soon as the call is connected.

“Is this all I am to you, Winchester? Your spy? You could at least ask me how my food was, you know.” Then she laughs because she's a bitch like that, but continues seamlessly, “Actually, I'm sorry to tell you that your name didn't even come up.”

Dean groans with disappointment. It's not like he's emotionally invested in this, but Jo had assured him that having her as a partner in this little project would work in his favor, and plus, it had the added bonus of lessening the heat in her glare whenever the subject came up. Just as he’s about to thank her for trying, though, she adds, all sly, “But I _did_ manage to score an invite to this much-talked about party. And I get to bring my friends.”

“You're kidding! When is it?”

“This Friday. All I had to do was whine about never getting to go out, and he told me was I welcome at his shindig. And then he was all, 'And hey, if you know anyone else with some free time, bring them along.' I'm wondering if the guy has any friends of his own.” Then she pauses, and there's something extra in her voice, a gentleness that makes his stomach twist guiltily. “He's really not that bad, though. Did you know he's been to, like, every country in the world?”

“No, I didn't.” The logical part of his brain tries to tell him this is a good thing, Jo picking up a few details about this guy he's trying to win over, but a large part of him wishes she would stop talking, wishes Cas could remain this distant, impossible to relate to, being. He sighs, pictures the Impala. “Did you find out anything else?”

Jo's tone hardens, but she answers, “He's got one sister and one brother. I guess you know Gabe. He owns McHale's, and then his sister's name is Anna. Cas is the youngest. He's known Balthazar since he was a kid, and they decided to attend the same school. Not that different from us, I guess.” She swallows. “I found out some stuff about the boyfriend. Do you want to know?”

“Why not?”

She sighs. “He met Aaron over Christmas vacation last year. He and Balthazar were visiting London and Aaron was studying abroad over there.” He can her soft breath as she smirks at him over the line. “No wonder you're such close friends. I mean, you so obviously run in the same circles.”

“Cut the sarcasm,” he snaps. He already has plenty of reasons to chicken out, and if he needs someone to make him feel like shit about this, well, he can just look in the mirror. “Is that it?”

“No,” Jo says, and there's an apology in there somewhere, he thinks. “I also got the impression . . . that fidelity may have already been an issue in the past. On Aaron's side, I mean.”

He struggles to process her meaning because there's no way, just no way, that things have suddenly taken such a dip in his favor. And then he inwardly winces when he realizes that his immediate reaction was not one of sympathy for Cas. He pushes past it. “He told you that?”

“No, it's just a feeling I got, when I asked about the long distance thing. He said something about it being more eye-opening than he had originally thought it would be.”

He can't bring himself to ask her anything else, so he thanks her and tries not to notice that she hangs up without saying goodbye. She won't stay mad he knows, but it's not of much comfort since she's not really the problem. The problem is the 'project' itself, the ugly undertaking he agreed to. It had been easy enough to justify in the silence of his apartment, but now Cas is this _guy,_ who's already had to patch his relationship back together once, and Dean's going to pick at the seams until it unravels completely. He doesn't have a choice, but that doesn't mean he has to feel good about it, and he skips lunch that day and glares at everyone that goes near him.

*

Tuesday goes a little better.

There's no use denying that there’s a flutter of nervousness in his stomach when he walks into Philosophy. It's the first encounter he's had with Cas that he's actually had some time to prepare for since Crowley laid out the new offer and it turns out the preceding hours are filled with more thoughts about the various ways this whole thing can blow up in his face than anything else, but in the intervening minutes he managed to at least carve out some semblance of a plan.

So his gaze goes to where Cas is sitting up straight, second row from the front like he's a big, huge dork, and he rolls his eyes, adjusts his book bag on his shoulder, and crosses the room to slide into the seat beside him.

“What are you doing?”

The voice comes immediately, sharp and suspicious, and Dean tries for wide, innocent eyes when he looks over. “What do you mean,” he asks, as casual as he can, but it's hard to focus with Cas clicking a pen in his right hand, and Dean's eyes float from the long, slender fingers to the jut of his wrist bone. “I'm not doing anything.”

“Oh right,” Cas says sardonically. “It must be my imagination that you've sat in the same slacker-seat in the back since the start of the semester.”

“What, a guy can't change it up every now and then?” It's weak and he knows it, but it's not like he's going to win any points for subtlety anyway and even though Crowley didn't specifically mention a deadline, he's guessing this is an 'as-soon-as-possible' type of assignment. It seems like a waste of time to pretend that he's aiming for anything less than what he's aiming for. He jerks his attention to Cas' annoyed frown, and ruefully shakes his head. “You know, if you were a little friendlier this seat wouldn't have been free for the taking,” he can't resist adding.

Cas blows out a breath and turns away to pull out his book, and then flips it open to the pages they had to read for homework. For a moment Dean thinks that's going to be the end of it until Cas mutters, “Well, you're sitting there, aren't you? So clearly friendlinessis not important to _you_.”

The corner of Dean's mouth quirks up. Cas' tone has lost its bite, and unless Dean’s mistaken – and he very rarely is in instances such as these – the slate blue eyes flicker with something akin to amusement. He decides to take it as an invitation and returns, “Well, I’ve got kind of offbeat tastes.”

“How fortuitous,” Cas deadpans. “And there I was thinking the highlight of my day was going to be the reemergence of Pumpkin Spice Lattes into my life.” He holds up a Starbucks travel mug and takes a sip.

“Pumpkin Spice Latte,” Dean repeats and if it comes out slightly incredulous he can’t really be ashamed. Jesus. Caramel, Dean can understand adding to coffee; he can even understand the thought process behind chilling it. Sorta. But Hell will double as an ice skating rink before Dean will be willing to pay extra for a barista to put something that sounds suspiciously like food into his drink. “You do know you can buy a regular coffee for a couple of bucks, don’t you?”

“Yes, Dean, I’m aware. But it wouldn’t taste like this, would it?”

“Probably not, if you’re as ‘fortuitous’ as you claimed.”

Cas glowers at him then falls silent, taking another sip, but he’s looking contemplative so Dean doesn’t interrupt, just waits. When Cas speaks again, there’s a somber note that slips in, driving away the teasing atmosphere. “Why are you suddenly talking to me,” he asks. “We’ve had classes together for years and not once have you ever attempted to do so. In fact, there have been instances where you’ve gone out of your way to avoid it.”

So, evidently Cas is the kind of guy who doesn’t beat around the bush, and if Dean wasn’t attempting some seriously shady shit here, he thinks he would appreciate that. Mysterious men and women hold as much allure for him as they do anyone else, but when it comes to anything more than a one night stand, Dean finds he’s more comfortable with people who don’t feel the need to intentionally shroud themselves in secrecy. It’s why, outside of Sam, he’s closest with Jo and Charlie. He’s known Jo since he was a kid, and Charlie . . . Well, Charlie carries a Hello Kitty wallet in her Yoshi purse and wears brightly colored t-shirts that say things like _I sold my soul for the meta._ Neither woman is the type to hide things.

Dean shrugs, fumbles for a reason that would be close to the truth. “I just wanted to be friends with you,” he says at length.

Cas blinks back soundlessly.

It might actually be the single lamest thing he’s ever said, and an embarrassed flush creeps down his neck as Professor Blake approaches the podium, and Dean is saved the trouble of jamming his foot any further into his mouth when she smiles, pulling the attention of everyone in the room.

Well, except for Dean. It’s not that he doesn’t respect her because, despite her somewhat questionable understanding of Greek philosophers, Blake is another Professor he genuinely likes but today he’s much too focused on the sound of Cas’ pen marking notes along the lines of his paper to contribute anything more than noncommittal grunts to Blake’s questions. It’s _distracting_ because he’s scribbling so fast that Dean’s just about to attribute it to his major tax accountant vibe, when his eyes actually start recognizing the words. He tries to stay silent – it’s not like Cas has given him any indication that his input would be welcome, or his questions – but he just can’t, he’s not wired that way.

“Dude,” he hisses, pitching his voice low. He casts a furtive glance at Blake, who is in deep discussion with a girl Dean thinks might be named Becky, before continuing, “What are you doing?”

Cas jumps, looks over, then, when he sees Dean watching, he jerks the paper to the other side of his desk and covers it with his arm. “Nothing.” But, see, the thing is that Dean has pretty impressive reflexes, and when he sets his mind to something, well, his mom would say that he's a force to be reckoned with. And snatching a piece of paper from the desk beside him, whether it's guarded by Castiel or not, it's not exactly the Tet Offensive.

Once securing the paper, he ignores Castiel's soft demands of _Dean, give that back. I mean it. Dean. Dean! Are you listening to me?_ Which he's obviously not, because he's too busy scanning what he's come to realize is a playlist, columns of track titles lining the page in Cas' tiny, careful handwriting. At some of the artists he can't suppress a quiet snort, but he takes note of the assorted Beatles, Led Zeppelin, and Metallica that are peppered in. He doesn't mean to shoot Cas an appreciative grin, but he does, before pulling a black pin from his bag. He barely resists scratching out the names of some of the more just flat-out embarrassing ones, skips to next line, and starts to write.

He works almost through class, unable to concentrate when there are so many glaring _holes._ Sure, the kid's got From “Me to You,” but he's missing “Can't Buy Me Love” and where is “Ramble On?”

At the end of the hour, Blake dismisses them and Dean has barely gotten to his feet before Cas is standing over him, hand outstretched. “Give it to me,” he snaps. And he looks so tense that Dean laughs, nudging Cas' shoulder with his own as he passes the song list over and they simultaneously turn towards the door. For several steps neither speaks, Cas inspecting the additions and Dean trying to pretend he's not awaiting a verdict. The truth is, he can be kind of protective about his music and whatever Cas' next words are, they are going to definitively shape Dean's opinion of him.

Cas looks up, over. Shrugs. “It's fine,” he says.

Dean slows to let him push through the door first and he takes the opportunity to glower at Cas' back. “Fine, Cas? Really?”

“I don't know what you were expecting me to say. Your additions are fine, though I wouldn't say they were particularly . . . offbeat.”

“Oh my god, do you want me to hit you,” Dean mutters.

At that, Cas laughs, the sound low and warm, and surprising, considering Dean's pretty sure he's never heard it before. It's not like it's anything special, but there's suddenly a strange swelling sensation in his chest, like he's proud that he warrants it. Which would, of course, be stupid.

When they reach the middle of the hallway there's a moment of awkwardness and then Cas gives a halfhearted grin, shifting on his feet. He looks like he's a second away from walking away so Dean decides to act on impulse. “Do you want to go grab some lunch?” And yeah, he's pretty sure he practically just shouted it in Cas' face.

Cas arches his eyebrows, his expression turning to one of perfect confusion as he tilts his head and studies Dean in a way that is mildly reminiscent of a bug. “You want to . . . eat together?” Like it's this really weird thing, like Dean doesn't have friends and can't be _sociable,_ if required.

“Yeah,” he answers. He shoves his hands into his pockets, digs his fingernails into his palms. “If you want to, I mean.”

For a second he's sure Cas is going to ask him why he's even issuing the invitation but to his amazement, he simply checks the time on his cell phone before nodding slowly. “I believe I have time to eat,” he says.

Dean smiles widely. “Okay. Great.” And he means it too, at another response from Castiel that feels hard-won. “Do you want anything in particular?”

“Actually, yes.”

*

Fifteen minutes later Dean eyes the menu at McHale's before stealing a quick look across the table at his companion.

“You seriously want to go eat at your brother's bar,” Dean had grumbled, as they made their way to their cars. They reached Cas' first, a white, dated Lincoln, somehow so much different from what he would have expected someone as uptight as Cas to drive. He wasn't sure why – maybe it was the straight line of the guy's back, or the slightly imperious determination in his step, or the business-casual default of his wardrobe – but Dean had always been under the impression that Cas' family had money and that Cas would be more likely to drive an exotic foreign car than one that looked like it was on the cusp of giving out all together. “We were both there last week.”

“You asked me what I wanted,” Castiel had returned calmly, like Dean was the one reacting unreasonably. “I want a cheeseburger, and Gabe's are delicious. It's where I was planning on eating before you asked.”

And Dean had thrown up his hands, losing that argument, but now that they're here, under Gabe's unwavering scrutiny, he's wondering if he maybe shouldn't have put his foot down. “So, I'm guessing that playlist is for your party,” he eventually says because it's been a couple of minutes since either of them have spoken and he's starting to feel self-conscious.

Luckily, or unluckily, depending on how Dean wants to look at it, Cas is evidently just as uncomfortable. He drums his fingertips against each other rhythmically, his eyes flicker across the corners of the room like someone might come and rescue him. Finally Cas apparently gives up and returns his gaze to Dean's. “Excellently deduced,” he says.

“I have my moments,” says Dean. He waits for Cas to expand on that in some way, and when he doesn't, he sighs and switches gears. “So what's your major?” It seems like an innocent enough question, the kind of thing you ask when you're in the middle of a super-awkward meal with a classmate you don't know very well, but Cas frowns.

“I don’t have one.” Then, when Dean raises an eyebrow because everyone knows you don’t sign up for Writing 201 with Professor Moseley if you can avoid it, Cas inclines his head. “Technically I’m studying Journalism, but I doubt I’ll be around long enough to finish the program.”

“Dying,” Dean quips questioningly and Cas chuckles.

“No, nothing like that.” He pauses, his eyes flicker from Dean’s face to the table again and something uncertain lingers there. “My family doesn’t see the benefits in higher education. They were not pleased when I expressed an interest in attending college.”

“Yeah, my old man didn’t take my news all that well either,” Dean replies. For the most part, he avoids talking about his dad with anyone that isn’t Charlie or Jo, or Sam, but Cas suddenly looks so unassuming, with his hair all windblown and his navy dress shirt wrinkled, that a sense of camaraderie washes over Dean and loosens his tongue. “He’d been hoping I’d enlist.”

He waits for the outpouring of pity or sadness but Cas offers neither. Instead, his gaze turns studious, curious. “What made you tell your father no?”

“My nosy brother.” Dean smiles, latches onto the memory, and tells him about Sam’s melodramatic ultimatum. He remembers the fight that had the Winchester brothers shouting until their throats were sore; the string of swearing that had fallen from his own mouth when Sam set his shoulders (so fucking stubborn, even then) was a true sight to behold.

Cas is grinning by the time Dean wraps it up, and he looks so relaxed that for a moment Dean completely forgets that there’s anything underhanded going on. For a moment he lets himself pretend that he and Cas are friends and that this isn’t all that different from any other lunch he’s shared with Charlie and Jo. Of course, there’s the fact that his mind seems determined to unleash as many inappropriate and ill-timed thoughts as he can process at one time, but it’s not exactly Dean’s fault that Cas is so fucking annoyingly attractive, or that he smells as good as he does.

“You and your brother must be close,” Cas says, and Dean could weep with gratitude that he’s jerked from that pretty dangerous line of thought.

“Well, yeah. The guy’s my brother. What about you? You’re not close with your siblings?”

Cas doesn’t answer right away, fiddles with his napkin, tears absentmindedly at the corners. Then, as though coming to some sort of decision, he looks up and meets Dean’s eyes. “My relationships with both Gabriel and Anna are . . . complicated.”

And Dean opens his mouth to ask because that’s what you do when your, uh, friend or whatever says something so intentionally vague, but then Gabe appears at their elbows to take their order. They get the same thing – cheeseburgers with no lettuce, extra fries – and as Cas and Gabe go over the liquor list for the party, Dean finds himself watching them closely for anything off about their interaction. They do seem different today than they were the last time Dean saw them together, a layer of tension between them that didn't exist before.

“Anna called me today,” Gabe says, clearing his throat. “She seemed . . . different.”

Cas instantly shuts down, his mouth falling into an angry line, his arms crossing over his chest. Even Dean, who has not really spent that much time with the guy, can tell that Gabe should probably change the subject, leave the conversation entirely, maybe, but Cas' brother must have bigger balls than he would have guessed, because he continues, “She asked me some stuff about -”

“I'm handling it,” Cas interrupts, a trace of defiance sharpening his tone. He turns away.

Gabe nods slowly, seriously, and he gives Cas' shoulder a quick squeeze before disappearing behind the door to the kitchen.

Dean shifts in his seat, casts a wary glance at Cas. “Are you alright,” he's stunned to hear himself ask. It's another level of surprise completely when it dawns on him several beats later that he's waiting for an answer, and that he's a little pissed at Gabe for screwing up Cas' good mood.

Cas shrugs noncommittally, his jaw clenched tight.

“You can talk about it, if you want.”

Dean's terrible at this kind of thing, he does know that. Like, offering to talk about feelings, trying to play the good, unbiased listener, that's always really been more Sam's territory. So he can't explain why Cas starts talking.

“My sister, Anna,” Cas begins quietly. He doesn't look up, head low enough that Dean cannot read his expression, and it frustrates him. “Lately she's been having some problems dealing with our family. She's never appreciated their involvement.”

“I thought it was just the three of you.”

“I'm closest with Anna and Gabriel,” Cas answers, and he's being more cautious with his words than makes sense. But Dean can't question him on it, so he says nothing. “But I have a much bigger family than just them. Anna moved here to escape their influence and she's having a hard time adjusting. I do my best to keep them from any direct interaction with her, but I can't guard her every second of every day. I can probably guess what she would say if I offered.”

Dean smiles. “Not one for playing the damsel in distress?”

“Not particularly, no.” Cas doesn't smile back, but Dean doesn't think he's imagining the way Cas' eyes crinkle at the corners, or the echo of something soft shining through the blue. He feels a responding _kick_ at the pit of his stomach and huffs out a laugh that sounds hollow to his own ears as Cas asks, unexpectedly, “And what about you, Dean?”

“What about me?”

“I divide my time between worrying about my family and as you so aptly pointed out, begging people to attend my party. What is it that you do?”

“Oh.” He thinks for a moment, then, “Well, I mean, I'm hoping to write a book series when I get out of here, but I'm just in the planning stages right now. My mom's always been a big believer in angels and stuff, so it's based on the idea that they, you know, like, live among us, look like people . . .” His voice trails away as he takes in Cas' carefully blank expression. “What?”

Cas barely moves a muscle as he says, “It was my understanding that you didn't believe in things like angels and God.”

“Oh, I don't. But my mom does.” He doesn't tell Cas that for a while he had believed right along with her, bowing his head in prayer every night, whispering for God to look after his mommy, daddy, and baby Sammy. Of course, he'd learned at four what a waste of time that was.

“Hmm,” is all Cas says.

“But in my spare time, I'm usually searching for a job, or perfecting my poker skills. In fact,” he narrows his eyes speculatively at Cas, “you'd probably be pretty decent. You ever play a game?”

“You need a job,” Cas asks confusedly, ignoring Dean's question completely. “Gabriel has been looking for someone for weeks. Why don't you work here?” Cas doesn't wait for an answer, sliding gracefully out of the booth and to his feet, then following the direction Gabe took into the kitchen. The sounds of their voices float out into the bar and Dean's relieved that neither man sounds heated. When Cas returns, he's looking kind of proud of himself, and Dean tells himself that he finds it irritating and not at all attractive.

“You start Thursday night, as long as that's amenable to you,” Cas says, and he does seem cheerier now, at least. He's carrying both of their plates of food, and he passes Dean his as he returns to his seat.

A part of Dean knows that he should be offended that Cas took matters into his own hands, without so much as waiting for Dean's opinion of the matter, but he's just so relieved that he doesn't have it in him to argue. Not to mention that he kind of doubts that Cas would even understand what he did wrong. So he just takes it for the gift it is, and accepts the pang of guilt that stays lodged in his heart until long after the meal is over.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to say before that you can follow my destiel blog on Tumblr if you'd like. I'm a-frayed-edge over there. :)


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